


Words we could never find

by SoulWriter



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Amnesia, Bathing/Washing, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Comfort/Angst, Fluff, M/M, Memory Loss, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 20:49:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1616585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoulWriter/pseuds/SoulWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky has been sitting in the tub for days.<br/>The silence enclosed among the white tiles, slow water drips punctuating the oblivion, he almost never moves.<br/>Steve has made sure to take him out from time to time, replace the water with some new.<br/>[...] The Winter Soldier is captured by the spurts and movements of the pouring water, his gaze lost a thousand yards beyond. He's completely helpless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words we could never find

**Author's Note:**

> Post-CATWS fic. A catatonic Bucky is tracked down by Steve, turns out he doesn't want to leave the tub. Steve takes care of him, in the hope he will get his memories back eventually.
> 
> Playlist: What About Now - Chris Daughtry
> 
> Threw in some photoshopping as well.

* * *

 

_**Words we could never find** _

_a Stucky fanfiction_

 

* * *

 

 

* * *

 

Bucky has been sitting in the tub for days.

The silence enclosed among the white tiles, slow water drips punctuating the oblivion; he almost never moves.

Steve has made sure to take him out from time to time, replace the water with some new, soapy and steamy. He just sits there on the toilet as Steve works, his dark locks hanging damp around his face, a towel on his hips that Steve draped there; he stares blankly into the steam around him, as Steve drains the tub. He rinses it; opens the faucet back up, waters gurgles; probes the stream to get the perfect temperature. As the tub fills back up, Steve sits on the edge and glances at Bucky. The Winter Soldier is captured by the spurts and movements of the pouring water, his gaze lost a thousand yards beyond. He's completely helpless.

He has been like this since Steve and Sam managed to track him down. They had been going after trails all over DC, following reports of public disruption and such. And then of all places, it was the Smithsonian. The police radio called him an homeless guy refusing to leave the premises after closing time. But he had no home to get back to. Not even the streets. No home he knew of.

In the living room down the hallway, the others are waiting. It's not the pacing-around worried type of wait anymore; it's a hushed wait, a silent dragging of things, leading up to god knows what. Natasha is just sitting at the counter, munching soggy cereals, dipping and swirling the spoon into the shallow amount of milk left. Clint is busying himself with fletching some arrows – but he doesn't usually messes up the positioning, and that gives him away. Sam is laying on the couch for now. He had been pacing around, flipped through the paper twice, got food for everybody, but there's nothing that can really get their minds off the tension in the air. Maria sits upright in the armchair across the room from Natasha; she meets eyes with her, a worried look. She had been trying to communicate with Fury on a secure network, but she's never at ease, after what happened. If that wasn't enough, Tony wants to fly over from NY and there's absolutely no way in hell he's gonna be allowed anywhere near a recovering brainwashed super-soldier anytime soon. He's texting her like crazy trying to get off the hook – her phone buzzing in the silence; what makes it worse is that they need Bruce, but Bruce is with Tony and it's nearly impossible to separate them. They need Bruce because, even if he always insists he's not “that kind of doctor”, he's the only person who knows how to deal with a highly unstable personality. Also the only one Maria is going to trust right now.

“He has been in there long enough.” she says breaking the silence. Nat glances over the bathroom door.

“He's just changing the water” she replies, moving a fruit loop around in the bowl.

Maria gets out something in between a scoff and a sigh.

“It has been like this for days!”

There's a silent question – or rather an unspoken truth – hanging in the room, living in the space among them. Sam shuffles on the couch.

“... He's gonna get better. I'm sure it's just a matter of time... Steve is going to find what makes him click...” he says.

“I'm afraid it could be more complex than that.” interrupts Clint.

“But for you-”

“Clint got possessed by magic” cuts in Natasha, “I don't-... It's different.”

“I was never gone. Simply taken over by a force that Natasha – to put it rather simply – managed to punch away.” continues Clint.

Maria leans in to Sam, her tone softer. “We simply don't know if there's any Bucky Barnes left in there.”

 

Steve turns the knob on the faucet; it chokes the stream with a metallic moan. The last drops reach the surface, and ripple rings dance on it. He looks up to Bucky. He's still staring at the same spot on the water. He hasn't moved – not for catching the towel that slipped out of place, not for moving his hair away from his face. He just sits there, hollow, slouching his back forward, his arms – flesh and metal – resting on his thighs. The scars on his torso glisten in the damp air – it's really hot, it has been for the past few hours, or days (Steve doesn't want to think about it. He doesn't want to sleep at night or lose sight of him ever again). The mirrors are just foggy slabs; the steam condenses on the tiles, dripping down in thin streams. Steve's white shirt clings to his body. It's almost hard to breathe – or at least it would be for normal lungs. But Steve doesn't mind, that's how Bucky feels comfortable right now, and that's what he's going to give him.

 

Steve was ready for a lot of things when he stepped into the little makeshift theatre at the Smithsonian exhibition. It was dark. He didn't bring weapons, but he had to be ready to fight. Sam had reminded him on the ride there. So he was ready. But he wasn't ready to see what he saw... utter and complete surrender.

Bucky was sitting on the fabric-covered bench, his head firmly down between his shoulders, his hands digging into the edge of the seat. The vintage reel of their story still rolling. He called him.

He didn't reply.

So Steve kneeled in front of him, took a deep, trembling breath, and touched his shoulders lightly. Bucky shook and looked up to him. He was lost, so deep in a maze, but he latched onto Steve's gaze like a beacon. He recognized him – Steve knew he wasn't fully able to distinguish between the Steve and Bucky in the pictures, and Steve and himself, touching again in real life. Now and today weren't concepts that still made sense to his abused mind. But one thing only mattered to Steve: Bucky let him brush him on his feet and followed him, nested in his arms, back with him, back home. The Winter Soldier melted in his arms, he went on autopilot over the only thing he knew was still real: Steve.

Back to the apartment, Sam opened the door slowly and let them in. Everybody was standing there, holding their breaths. They sort of just lined up over the opposite side of the room, shifting lightly on their feet, unsure between being alert or heartbroken. Steve sat Bucky down – he grazed over the sight of those other people, no light in his eyes – and leaned over to look him in the eyes.

“Hey... Hey. You're good. We're home now. You're safe.” he said in his most reassuring tone. “...Are you hungry?” Bucky was returning his gaze but wasn't replying. “I can get you something to eat. Yes?”

Bucky shook his head to say no, so lightly it could have been mistaken for a shiver.

“Ok. Ok... What do you say, we get you cleaned up? There's a room for you, with a bed and everything... remember? So you can lay down if you're tired then.”

Bucky said yes, and again if you weren't Steve Rogers, it was hard to pick up.

Steve guided him down the hallway, worried pairs of eyes following them.

The door closed behind them with a wooden click, and Steve wasn't sure if it was turning out to be a good move. The pristine bathroom was small and essential – impersonal, white and enclosed, maybe something Bucky would have associated with bad memories. But no, Bucky stood there, only the vague shifting of his legs giving away a sign of life.

“Ok. Bucky... Let's get these off. Ok?” said Steve, getting in front of him. Always looking into his eyes, human to human.

One by one, Steve wrangled Bucky out of his layers, each one painfully awkward. Steve was trying really hard to be gentle, but clothes don't follow those rules – t-shirts get stuck on you head, and sleeves get tangled, and pants are hard to unbotton on someone else. Steve remembered when the two of them used to get naked so fast, they had to search for their pants around the room afterwards. Same action – universes apart. Steve refused to cry.

“I'm gonna open the water, alright?” Steve said, in the meantime. The water poured out, white hot puffs of steam, a milky teal pool swirling into the porcelain tub.

That was the first time Bucky moved on his own. He kneeled by the edge of the tub – almost tripping over his jeans, Steve wasn't finished – he stared into the water in awe. He slid his right hand into it, then the entire arm – his own arm. Then the metal one followed, a light thud on the tub wall. There was wonder and confusion on his face, like something great he had lost sight of. He arched his back over the edge, and tried to slide head first into the water.

“Hey! No... Hey, ok.” Steve stopped him, the tip of Bucky's hair already dipping into the water. “Alright. Let's get you in there.”

Bucky let Steve push him up, over and down in the tub. He sat lower and lower, the heat radiating into his core, water rising up to cover his chest, his shoulders, his jaw, his ears. His black hair spread like ink, swirling around ever so slowly. His eyes didn't meet anything on this side.

 

The ritual keeps being repeated. Once again Steve picks him up and guides him back into the tub. Once again Bucky quivers touching the water, but goes in anyway, the metal arm clanging dull.

Steve sits on the edge. Observes his friend once again. Or what is left of him.

Drip, drip.

There's a pearl.

Shiny and small, irregular and worthless, it's all that's left.

He can't find the reason to wish on it to become more. Can't find the word to name it.

Words are hiding from him.

He's pure thought, and Steve wishes really hard for him to find the thread out of the maze. How do you free someone who doesn't know what free will is anymore? Captain America is powerless. So Steve makes sure the water is warm and the clothes are clean. That's all he can do.

Steve isn't thinking, and he reaches with his hand to brush back Bucky's hair. He almost stops midway, frightened that Bucky would startle, but instead his head adapts to the pressure and moves with it. Crystal blue eyes surface behind his hair, they're the color of the water. Bucky doesn't look at Steve, yet somehow that warms Steve's heart. Because Bucky knows him, lets him touch him and doesn't need visual confirmation to know he's safe with him.

The strands don't want to stay tucked behind his ear. Steve tries again, but no. He kneels down at Bucky's level as he brushes his hair back, wiggling his wet hand deeper into the strands, so maybe they'll hold a shape and stay behind. But even if they don't, it's fine. Steve could do that for the rest of his life. His knees hurting on the tile floor, his shirt wet, he will stay this close to him forever.

“Hey Buck... Hey.” he whispers, and tilts his head to the side to catch a better angle on Bucky's face. “We could... wash your hair, what do you say? I've got shampoo. A good one, you know. It's not that white dry soap bar we had in Brooklyn anymore...” he chuckles lightly, a smile to encourage a smile, his fingers stroking his head, positive reinforcement piling up.

After a long processing moment, Bucky does a frail nod. He repeats it more times it's actually needed.

The bottle has pretty colors, and so does the thick shampoo. It smells like grapefruit and flowers, that's how Steve likes it. He usually rations it for himself, it might be a wartime thing – but he assesses they're gonna need more for Bucky. He cups some water in his hand and pours it on top of Bucky's hair, but it just rolls off his forehead.

“Bucky, look up...” he goes, and gently presses his fingers against his jaw, propping Bucky's head up. He's docile. He glaces sideways at Steve, before going back to his deadpan stare into the steamy whiteout. So maybe human contact is slowly getting him back, Steve hopes, as he foams the shampoo. He's never washed anybody's hair, and he's constantly worried the soap will get in Bucky's eyes. But it doesn't. It feels good to be close to Bucky again, to feel him under his fingertips once more, but Steve doesn't want to give in to false hopes. He's horrified when he feels sleek bulging scars all over his scalp: they're all shapes and sizes, each one telling a story of abuse Steve's not sure he wants to hear. Steve tries to swallow the knot in his throat; he breathes in the tears. He will not cry because there's no point. He will take care of Bucky now, later, always and forever.

Bucky's head is now white. Foam and hair tangled soft. Steve shifts to get the showerhead, opens the water back up. Without Steve watching over him, Bucky tilts his head back down, and one of the foam peaks breaks, it lands softly on the water. Bucky looks at it, follows it as it dissolves slowly – it gets beaten by the stream from the showerhead Steve is carrying. Bucky tries to follow the stream and look directly into it, so Steve has to pull it back a bit more to hit above his eyes. Shampoo gets washed away. Steve runs his hand in Bucky's hair, he makes sure there's no soap left. It feels clean and soft now.

Bucky's eyes are fixed on Steve now, tilted all the way back to catch his face as he works the water down his shoulders. Steve notices. He doesn't know if he should look back or not. So he smiles back at him at times – a smile to prompt a smile – and goes back to rinsing; and he feels his eyes on himself, a silent scrutiny. Bucky is blind and he's trying to read him.

Crystal blue eyes blind to emotions.

Bury deep under the snow.

Wash every scar.

Steve goes round again, warm water over the edge of Bucky's forehead; Steve is done but doesn't want to let go of this feeling, stream flowing merging his fingers and Bucky's hair in one contained symphony.

Warm water gushes on him and Bucky closes his eyes. Steve can feel his shoulders relaxing – his head tilts back a bit more. He drinks it all in. So Steve doesn't stop. He brushes over the side of his neck, down the crook of his collarbones – they've been broken and bent – over his shoulders and back to his hair, just to make sure. Steve rubs the base of his neck, and Bucky shifts his head forward, an automatic need for more contact. Steve chokes his screaming heart. He showers down Bucky's spine, circular motions that will never be gentle enough to wipe away the bumps and bruises he finds along the way. He comes back up and Bucky's eyes are there again, searching his face. Steve won't cry, but it's enough. He hovers the stream on Bucky's hair for the last time, then plants a kiss on his forehead; tastes clean and warm, a bit of chlorine and copper pipes. He doesn't want to search for Bucky's taste in there, but he can't help but think about it, as he places the shower head back in its place. They just have been frozen too long. The essence bleached out of them. Steve feels it now. As he fiddles the faucet shut, he feels the weight of it all, and he doesn't know where to find the strength to carry them both.

And then he feels – Bucky's hand reaching over and grabbing his own hand he left behind gripped around the edge of the tub. Steve turns around way too quickly, and Bucky startles a bit, his eyes losing track of where they should be pointing at. Bucky's fingers, the real ones, remain there, wrapped loosely around Steve's wrist.

Water trickling and Steve's pulse reverberating through Bucky's touch; muffled need for air.

Steve moves his right hand over his friend's – brushing lightly at first, then sliding his fingers into his, holding tight at the voiceless miracle surfacing deep within.

Crystal blue eyes drifting in a sea of memories.

“Bucky...” his voice drowning in his throat, his hands clasping at Bucky's - “... James. I'm here...” cracked words now. “I'm here.”

Lightly, Bucky returns the pressure, tentative: but he feels it. He turns his head up, and stares at Steve. The same lost look he gave him at the museum.

He's there.

“-Ah...” he tries to open up his throat, but Bucky's vocal cords are a rusty fence. He tries to coax out a sound, but it's hard to focus. The very concept of words gets lost in the gray of the maze. How to connect a thought to its tag. It's foggy and dark and he's looking for one word. But words are hiding from him.

Steve pulls Bucky's face back to look at him, his hand brushing softly on his beaten cheek.

Crystal blue eyes see him.

Veins trembling close.

He's scared and shocked and scans him, shuffling through the hints in his brain. Running towards a face.

“... Steve.”

His voice bounces off the tiles, sounding even more unbalanced and rough.

Bucky shuffles and the water sloshes around, and Steve gets wet – but it doesn't even matter, because there's the most dramatic urgency in Bucky's voice. He needs to know, he clenches Steve's arm, turns around and it's real – Steve's really there this time. His breath quickens, and he swings around his metal arm, clasps at Steve's shoulders because there's an immediate need – for something, for something. Bucky's is running out of the maze and can't stop, not now.

“Bucky! I'm here!” Steve doesn't blink nor looses his eyes, now piercing through him like the cold hard fingers on his right shoulder.

There are other words, something else trying to escape Bucky's tentacular mind – he gapes his mouth open again, shakes his head, looks away – if he could just _focus_... –

“...I- Steve... I- ...”

The struggle is ongoing, the rims of Bucky's eyes now swollen, wet gathered lashes, watery eyes. It hurts to find the words.

Those eyes of tragedy and hope latch onto Steve's once again – a question, a cry, the bare gift of his being.

And Steve gives in.

He pulls Bucky in and clutches him, holds him tight, never let him slip away ever again. He kisses the water in his hair, feels him flush against his skin again – Bucky's face and nose and eye against his neck, and he can feel hot tears rubbing into his skin. His own are flowing silent. Two hands grip Steve's shirt, closing tight around his ribcage – flesh and bone, hard metal, both rough and desperate.

They're holding on so tight they can barely breathe. But the Winter Soldier is sobbing on his shoulder and Steve won't ever mind; because the way he does it – two hard gasps and that lighter third one – that's how Bucky does it.

“...I know.” words don't matter-

“I know. ...I love you too.”

 

 


End file.
